


Detective

by KingTouchy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-16 13:27:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3489941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KingTouchy/pseuds/KingTouchy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John noticed something at the funeral.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Detective

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to beyonces_fiancee for beta.

As day after aching day passed, each inconsistency and odd bit of data he encountered forced John to reexamine his memory of Sherlock’s death.

The funeral had been well attended by police, former clients, distant family, and a handful of press hanging back: no one John knew well. Mycroft gave a brief eulogy that flowed through John without meaning. His head hadn’t yet cleared from the mild concussion he had sustained outside of St Bart’s. The shock of loss still gripped him. But as Mycroft left the church, alone, a question demanded answering, and John stepped up quickly to close the gap between them.

“Your parents,” said John. “Where are your parents? You weren’t actually hatched. You do have them.” He had no charity in his heart for Mycroft, not even now. Especially now.

Mycroft stared down at him, stern. “They couldn’t bear to face the media circus.”

“Not even for their own son?” 

“Our grief is private and none of your business. Good day.” Mycroft left him on the stone walkway, and John didn’t follow. He went home to the silence, and, as his head cleared and the shock receded, grief welled up. John sat in his chair and stared at nothing as sunlight moved slowly about the room. John slept in their bed, alone. Anguish weighed him. He saw again and again Sherlock’s body falling; he heard again and again Sherlock’s voice, _Keep your eyes on me._ He joined Mrs Hudson to place flowers on the bare grave a week after the funeral, to have a final, private goodbye. 

A week after that, he moved out of 221B. 

His first night in a new flat gave him nightmares and obsessive memories of Sherlock. The flashes of joy they’d shared -- racing through London like kings, squabbling across the kitchen table, colliding into sex, sharing companionable silence -- were agony, and he turned from them. His moment by Sherlock’s grave, pouring out his heart, haunted him. The bare soil. The ornate headstone. Mrs Hudson’s flowers reflected in the shiny finish of black marble. The bare, fresh dirt. The funeral, before, and Mycroft’s cold dismissal. _They couldn’t bear to face the media circus._ The reporters, cameras clicking from the sidewalk. Mrs Hudson’s flowers on the bare dirt. 

Mrs Hudson’s lone flowers on the bare dirt. _Our grief is private and none of your business._ It’s a private cemetery, thought John, and the funeral is well over. Wouldn’t his parents at least lay flowers on the grave?

That was the start. 

Four months later, he confronted Mycroft Holmes outside of the Diogenes Club. 

*

“There were thirteen likely scenarios for Sherlock to stage his fall,” said Mycroft. His back was to John as he clinked a decanter and glasses together. “His ideas were more fanciful than practical, but in the end he--.” 

“I don’t care,” John interrupted. “I don’t care how he did it.”

Mycroft turned. “No?” 

“I want to know why. Why he faked his own suicide.” 

Mycroft held out a glass of whiskey and two ice cubes amid the rich, masculine surroundings of the Diogenes Club visitors’ room. The doors were closed; they were alone, and John was sure Mycroft would allow no interruptions. The setting wasn’t ideal, but it was better than duking it out on the pavement outside. Still, John had refused the offer to sit in one of the plush chairs upon entering, and he refused the whiskey now. Mycroft cocked his head and pushed the glass into John’s hand. “Consider it medicinal if you must, Doctor.”

“It was important that I see it. That someone witnessed him when he jumped.” John set the glass down on the side table. “Or else he wouldn’t have told me to - to keep looking. But what was the purpose?” 

“The pain he caused was unfortunate, but not this primary goal.” Mycroft’s polite sympathy was infuriating. 

“Then _why_? Why do that to me?” 

“There were three shooters,” began Mycroft, and explained. Three shooters for three people that Sherlock values, poised to kill them all if not signalled to withdraw. “There were only two ways to prevent your deaths.” Moriarty made the first option impossible by killing himself. The second option was Sherlock’s plunge from the top of St Bart’s roof. “It was a risky plan, though straightforward enough with the proper planning. Sherlock considers any risk worth your safety.” 

“Considers.” Present tense. Alive. _God, yes._ “So where’s he now?” 

“Johannesburg, South Africa. San Paolo, Brazil. Bangkok, Thailand. Various small towns in Germany on the Czech border. It depends. Maybe he's in Boston by now."

"Maybe you can stop being smart and tell me something useful."

"Sherlock's location doesn't matter. Moriarty left behind an empire that spans the globe, a web to be dismantled.” Mycroft settled into a wingback chair. “His lieutenants remain as well, and as long as they believe Sherlock is dead, they will not see him coming. If they believe he is dead, they have no reason to control him by harming his loved ones.”

“But he didn’t--.” _He didn’t tell me; he didn’t come back for me; he didn’t take me with him._

“If you, of all the people in the world that Sherlock cares for, up and disappear, Sherlock will be found out. DI Lestrade and Mrs Hudson will be at risk, as well as him. As well as you, John.” 

John went to the window and looked through the glass at the world beyond. Fury and grief and hope and joy choked him. He clenched his teeth and breathed slowly, deeply, through his nose. When he could control his voice, he said, “I want to see him. No, wait -- I don’t want to join him. I just want to see him. You can make that happen, or you can lock me up now, because by God I will go looking for him if you don’t.”

*

Two days later, John Watson received an invitation to attend a medical conference in Boston. A round-trip airline ticket was included, and a hand-written note. “You have three days. Use them wisely. MH” The threat to return was unspoken but understood. Using his phone to text because texting annoyed Mycroft, John asked one last question even though he knew the answer. 

[John] How do I find him?

[Mycroft] He’ll find you.

*

Sherlock could ambush him anywhere, and it was like waiting for a balloon to pop. John half expected to see him as soon as he left the plane, but there were no familiar faces waiting. No lanky coffee drinkers at the Starbucks, no tall men shopping at the duty free, no one watching him queue and shuffle and eventually face a surly immigration officer. Long corridors, herds of people off toward baggage claim. John had only a carry-on, and paused, at a loss. Maybe ground transport. A hotel. If Sherlock Bloody Holmes could fake his own death, he could find John in a nearby hotel. He passed a line of chauffeurs who waited for their fares, holding up signs, and he stopped dead because one man held up a sign that obscured his face, a sign that read WATSON written in familiar handwriting. 

“I think,” said John, his eyes prickling and voice cracking and arms aching, “I think you’re my ride.” 

Sherlock lowered the sign and said, “I am.” 

*

Sherlock led him toward the luggage claim, wearing a disguise. He wore a dull grey suit with a loose cut, an unremarkable white shirt, and a blue tie. His hair was shorn, the curls gone, dyed brown, and he looked younger. Shoulders defeated. Tired. A fumbling twenty-something, wearing an ill-fitting suit in a job he couldn’t handle. John suspected the persona wasn’t a stretch. Sherlock’s neck and his wrists were unchanged, though. John knew exactly how each one felt, pulse thrumming under his lips, once upon a time. Over four months, now. Four months gone forever. 

“I didn’t check anything.” 

“Do you really want to have this conversation in the middle of the terminal?” Mycroft had said the same thing outside of his club. The brothers and their endless manipulations -- exasperating. The brothers orchestrating the worst possible experience in John’s life -- infuriating. But the same brothers had made one more miracle come true, and Sherlock Holmes was walking, breathing, and talking next to John Watson, close enough that their hands brushed. John wanted him, wanted every last particle of him. Sex, yes, but also the chance to sit and look at him. Mourn the changes that John hadn’t witnessed. Listen to him, drink in his voice. Taste him, tongue to tongue, skin to skin. Argue about what to eat. To hear the violin again. 

“I want,” John began, but then he took Sherlock’s hand and stopped him. _God, how much I want._ People flowed around them until John pulled Sherlock off to the side. “I want you to stop jerking me around.” 

“This isn’t safe.” Sherlock tugged at his hand but John wouldn’t let it go.

“What, being seen in the airport?”

“Depending on who sees us, yes.” 

“Are you you trying to tell me that we wouldn’t be standing here right now if someone was about to murder us? We used to call that Thursday night.” John shook his head. “You lied to me, Sherlock. You lied and lied and lied, so why should I believe you now?”

"I want to go,” Sherlock said, strained. “Somewhere. With you."

"Where?"

"It doesn't matter. A hotel -- a broom cupboard -- anywhere that I can touch you without all these people about. You have no idea, I could ... God."

The desire he'd been fighting weakened his gut and made his thighs feel heavy so that when he nodded and followed Sherlock out to the taxi stand, John staggered a little. Maybe people would think he'd had too much to drink on the plane. He didn't care.

They took a five-minute ride to an upscale hotel.  Sherlock did all the talking at the desk. John leaned close enough to smell his cologne when Sherlock's jacket opened as he reached for his wallet. Sherlock's fingers hesitated, not clumsy, but not graceful. He'd had a manicure recently that didn’t hide the faint bruising on his knuckles.

"After you," Sherlock murmured, and guided John forward with his broad hand on his back, where it stayed in the elevator, down the hall and into their room. The room was a double with two queen beds, black-and-white architectural photos in black frames on the wall, and a dreary view of cargo planes and a rusted hangar beyond a high chain-link fence. 

Sherlock threw the bolt on the door. “John,” he said.

“No. Don’t. Mycroft said far too much as it is, and I don’t want to hear any more of it,” John replied. “I’m not here to talk.”

They reached for each other, hands pressed firmly, feeling, confirming life, consoling. Lips on mouth; mouth on jaw; blurred kisses. Sherlock jerked at his tie, loosening it, throwing it to one side. He slipped the jacket and tossed it on the bed, and then reached for John’s throat, one button, two, three, while John fumbled at Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock flicked through the rest of John’s buttons and pulled the shirt off, crowded John to the bed, and pushed him onto the duvet, where John squirmed his way fully onto the mattress. “Yes,” said Sherlock.

John curled up, a contraction of his gut, and reached for Sherlock, pulled him closer by his shoulders and drew him down. They didn't kiss, but Sherlock settled his weight, nudging John's knees apart so he could lie between them. John watched him, looking for clues, meaning, weakness, his eyes wandering all over until Sherlock cupped John's jaw in his palm and put their mouths together.

It was a small, dry press that made John shudder and open his mouth, lick at Sherlock's closed kiss, bite the fuller lower lip and pull it gently with his teeth so John could cover Sherlock's mouth and kiss him proper, wide open and wet.

"God," Sherlock said as he broke the kiss. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide in the muffled light, and he wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. "When Mycroft told me, I'd hoped we'd... I’d hoped. Just like this." He rolled his hips against John's, both of them hard, and nudged John's chin up so he could suck at the long tendon of his neck.

"Really," John said through clenched teeth. "When I figured it out, I hoped I'd never see you again."

"You don't mean that," Sherlock said into his ear, his voice luxuriant and his hand pulling at John's belt.

“No, but I could still throttle you.”

“You won’t.”

“I might. Don't assume you know everything about me."

"No need to assume." Sherlock insinuated his hand past John's waistband and palmed his cock. John turned his face away, gripping Sherlock's arm hard with one hand, sliding the other in Sherlock's open shirt to thumb his right nipple until it stood up, tight. Sherlock swallowed and said, "I know. I’ll always know just what you want."

"Sometimes," he said. A sudden pang of bitterness sharpened his tone. “Sometimes you get it spectacularly wrong.”

"I know what you want right now." Sherlock tightened his hand on John and twisted. "Tell me it isn't good. Tell me this isn't exactly what you want, right now." 

"I want -- well, okay, yes. I want this. I want a lot of things."

"Tell me about them. I’ll listen." He struggled out of his shirt and helped peel John out of his trousers and pants. As Sherlock rose to his knees, John pulled his trousers down his hips, but then Sherlock pushed John hard in the chest, back on to the bed. He bowed forward, grasped John’s prick and sucked it. 

“Oh, Christ,” John said. 

Sherlock moaned, small noises amid the obscene wet sounds of spit and flesh, and John took handfuls of his hair, pushing into the slick heat of Sherlock's mouth as deep as he could.

Sherlock took it for a few more thrusts, then wrenched away so he could kick his trousers off completely. He leaned over to rummage in his jacket, fumbling something from the inner pocket even as John slithered down the bed on his back until Sherlock's wet prick was right in front of his face. He pressed his fingers hard into Sherlock's hips and sucked onto his cock, groaning at the savoury salt taste, the soft give of the foreskin, the slick perfect texture of the glans stretched hot and tight. His breath stuttered in his throat desperately, _nng, nng_.

"No." Sherlock backed completely off the foot of the bed and stood so his thighs leaned against the mattress. He pulled on John’s thighs until his shins dangled off the edge. John sat up and pulled him close. Sherlock said no, again, and then pushed him down before ripping open a black-wrapped condom with his teeth and rolling it on.

"Oh God," John sagged back, hot and weak as he watched Sherlock twist open a tube of slick. His knees opened, and Sherlock slid his slippery fingers behind John's balls even as he stepped between John's legs. He pushed one leg up, setting the sole of John's foot to rest on his chest, the knee bent. He dribbled more clear lube on his fingers and directly on John's hole before sliding a finger in, and then another. Fresh sweat broke at John's temples, the creases of his elbows and knees, the small of his back, and he snapped his hips up so he could thrust himself back down on Sherlock's fingers, knowing that would be all it took; he'd come apart; he knew it.

But Sherlock knew it, too, and he withdrew his fingers, his eyes narrowed and mean when John swore and called him filthy names. "Oh, your mouth," Sherlock said. "Don’t stop. I want to hear more." He pressed the head of his cock against John's hole, just let it rest there with enough pressure that John could feel how hard he was, how hot. Sherlock's eyes were heavy-lidded and soft now as his gaze flitted from John’s chest, arms, cock. He looked at John’s face, long enough for John’s heart to slow, his breath to calm. His voice hushed, Sherlock said, "You are more beautiful than you know," as he pushed into John.

It was too much; the stretch hurt; and yet John reached clumsily with his left leg, hooking it around Sherlock's waist, pulling him in, pulling him down until Sherlock was buried to the hilt and John's right leg was bent back to his chest. He was split open, hanging on his pain and pleasure in equal measures, sweat rolling down his temples like tears.

And then Sherlock began to move, backing out a scant bit and nudging back, sweet, shallow thrusts that mellowed all the pain and suddenly John was moaning, scrubbing his head on the pillow, teeth clenched against all the things he didn’t want to say.

Sherlock dug his fingers hard into John's hips, hitching him that much closer to the edge of the mattress, the height of the bed perfect, and he pulled back, nearly out, and shoved in, in, in. It hurt again because John wasn't loosened completely but he was swearing, begging for Sherlock to move, move, fuck, now. Sherlock pulled John's left leg up and let the right one fall so he had both of John's knees hooked over his elbows,  palms on John’s thighs. He lowered his chin and began to fuck John in earnest. He rocked in hard and fast, banging his own knees against the bed frame and forcing John to brace himself by clutching the sheets, the side of the bed, anything to hold on and take it as hard as he could when even the bed itself rocked, whatever hardware used to bolt it to the wall driven looser and looser.

"Come," Sherlock said, his voice rusty and low. "John, now," he said louder, and John understood he was giving him an order. "Come, come on, do it. Come."

"No," John replied, biting down hard on his own lip. Sherlock's hands were holding John's legs, so he couldn't touch John's cock rolling red and sticky on his belly, but John was damned if he was going to take Sherlock's orders, do his work for him. Not this time.

Sherlock fucked him harder, slamming into him, the slap of sweaty thighs and moans keeping an odd rhythm with the banging of the bed frame against the wall. "Come, damn you, touch -- _hn_ \-- touch yourself," Sherlock demanded, breathing harshly. His face was screwed up tight in concentration, his hair clinging wetly to the sides of his face. He managed to speak between gasps, but he was determined and emphatic. "Fuck - fuck your hand and come."

"Not -- because you -- say so," John gritted. He grunted deep from his gut with every thrust now, each noise forced out of him, but he refused to give in, determined that Sherlock should break first. He lifted his hips, twisting and clenching around Sherlock's cock when it was buried deep.

"Come," Sherlock demanded.

John reached up and sucked on his first two fingers, letting his eyes flutter closed because watching Sherlock's expression open and begin to slacken in ecstasy was more than he could take.

"Come, hnng, c-come for me, hnn, _hnn_!" Sherlock choked as he jerked and shuddered through orgasm, lost but fighting it all the way. 

John came.

*

“I couldn’t believe a mother wouldn’t leave flowers on her son’s grave,” said John quietly. Jets continued to land and take off, even at midnight, background noise that he ignored. There had been sex, room service, and more sex. Now he was inclined against the headboard, cushioned by pillows. Sherlock’s head rested on his chest, and John drew his fingertips on Sherlock’s back, tracing a scar not yet healed flat, bumping along sharp ribs. “A week after the funeral, and there was nothing but dirt until Mrs Hudson gave you a bouquet.”

“You needed more than a single clue.”

“Anyone would.” 

Sherlock cleared his throat significantly. 

“Shut it, you. They just stacked up. That day, you were -- your demands, they were specific, and the lies," said John, and Sherlock’s arm tightened around John’s middle. “I’m a fraud, you said. As if anyone could have pulled off crimes and then solve them. I didn’t believe you. I couldn’t believe that anyone would, but there it was, in all the papers.

“And before that, you told me where to stand. To watch.” John bit his lips, scratched his left eyebrow. “And after, I was knocked down so I couldn’t reach you. I ended up with a concussion. I didn’t remember it all for a few weeks, but my memories did come back. It was all so ... orchestrated.”

“Like clockwork,” Sherlock said hushed as a secret. “And then?” 

“Molly Hooper. I bumped into her at Bart’s two weeks ago, and I scared the pants off her just by standing there. When you -- when it happened, I was too--. It was too much to think about, your autopsy, and it didn’t occur to me how she was the last person who should have done it, but there I was, facing her months later, and she up and bolted as soon as I tried to say hello. She wasn’t at the funeral, either. 

“Oh, and your homeless network. I recognised that one girl, from down by Waterloo Bridge. I saw her at Hyde Park and she winked. She smiled and winked right at me.” John gently raked Sherlock’s hair. A tiny knot from another injury was hidden there, under John’s fingertips, just above his right ear. “And then I found out that the flat was empty. Mrs Hudson never let it out. She said Mycroft was paying the rent. He told her it was as good a place to store your things as any. She said Mycroft preferred she not mention it because he didn’t want people to know he was sentimental. Mycroft. Sentimental.”

“His twisted version of mercy.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just Mycroft being Mycroft. That wasn’t the tipping point, though, was it.”

“No, that was last week, when I almost tripped over the bloke who ran me down with his bicycle. He was busking off Trafalgar Square.”

“You confronted him.” 

“Yeah, a little.” John had hauled him up from the pavement by the scruff, shouting _Who are you? Why were you there?_ “He knew who I was all right, but he didn’t say a thing. He slipped his coat, left it, left his guitar, his loose change, everything, and lit out. He’s a fast bugger.” 

“Probably saved you an ASBO.” Sherlock’s hand slid up and covered the scar on John’s shoulder. His thumb stroked John’s collarbone. 

“I went right to your brother’s club after that. I’m a little surprised he admitted a thing, but I did threaten to have it out in front of the whole street.” 

“He’s looking out for my best interests.” 

“By being a smug prick?”

“By sending you to me.” Sherlock hitched himself up to lean on the pillows next to John, sliding his leg between John’s and tugging his shoulder until they faced each other. He touched his mouth to John’s, a dry little petal kiss that he repeated, scattered on John’s cheeks, the tip of his nose, his forehead. 

“Why?” The word was voiceless, a secret hurt whispered in the dark between lovers. The prickle that stung John’s eyes sharpened, the back of his throat thickened. “Why did you leave me behind?” 

“It was the only way.” Sherlock’s reply was just as hushed.

“And you couldn’t tell me?” 

He kissed John’s closed eye where the corner was wet. “I’m telling you now.”

*

“I just won’t get on the plane,” said John. It was Sunday morning, and he and Sherlock sat at the tiny table by the window, coffee and pastries between them. His flight to London left at 7:26 PM, and he had no intention of boarding. The joy of being with Sherlock was enough temptation, but Sherlock’s scars, the weariness, the wariness in him convinced him that he must stay. 

Sherlock set down his coffee cup. “No, you can’t stay.” 

“You need help.” 

“I don’t. I need you safe.”

“You do realise how insulting that is, don’t you?”

“You, not just you. Mrs Hudson. Lestrade.” 

“Mycroft can protect them. You and I can go deal with Moriarty’s dregs.” 

"Mycroft can hide them away, but would they go? How well do you think Lestrade would enjoy leaving his life and career? Mrs Hudson -- can you imagine her living anywhere else? Without her little friendships? Away from the comforts of the best home she’s ever known? It’s not only their lives, but their _lives_ I’m protecting.”

“But--.”

“And yours, too. Do you really want to live on the run, hunted, dealing with terrible people, doing terrible things--.”

“Yes! With you, yes!”

“But with you, I lose my invisibility. You said Moriarty's dregs, but he would never tolerate incompetent people in his organisation. A task that will take months might take years. And all the while, our friends are pulled away from their lives like, like going to prison. A prison they don’t deserve.” 

“You need me.” 

“Oh, God, I do, but not like that. Listen, please, John.” He shoved aside the plates and clutched John’s hand. “Mycroft and I made calculations. It should take a year to root out the last of Moriarty’s business. Eight months left, now. I can do that. But the danger more than doubles if you’re with me, because they will hunt us both. They won’t stop coming at us, and it will only take longer, longer than I … It's hateful to be away from you.” 

John hated how Sherlock could run logic circles around him, how he could manipulate the feelings and sentiment that he said he rejected, all to control John. But John believed him, trusted his intellect, and had done since they met. 

“So I’m to get on the plane and go home.”

“Moriarty knew just how much you mean to me. He’d never hesitate to share that weakness with his people. You have to make them believe I’m dead. I know it’s -- difficult.” 

“Difficult? How hard do you think that will be, to miss you every day. Worrying that you’re out in the world with no one to cover your back. Grieving is the easiest thing, and it hurts. It still hurts, and I’m looking right at you.” John swiped at his eyes. “Oh, Christ, Sherlock, I can fool them all, because I’m not fooling anyone. I’ll grieve every day we’re not together. It breaks my heart.” 

*

John’s small suitcase stood ready by the door. He and Sherlock sat side by side on the foot of the bed. There had been sex and food, talk and tears, from Friday afternoon until now. The bed linens were shameful. Dirty dishes littered all the horizontal surfaces. Sherlock looked rested and serious. John was hollowed out, calm. 

“I’ll move back into the flat,” said John. 

“Don’t,” said Sherlock. “It will raise suspicions.” 

“Jesus Christ, can’t I have anything?” 

Sherlock took his hand. “You’ll have it all when I finish.” 

“Sherlock, I.” John gripped back, hard. “God. I’m so angry. I’m still so angry.” 

“I’m sorry.” He leaned his head against John’s temple. 

“Eight months.” 

“As soon as I can.”

John sat up. “I’ll come see you again.” 

“There’s no way to predict exactly where I am at any given time, or how safe it will be.”

“Mycroft managed it this time,” John said grimly. “You’re working with him. He’ll know.” 

Sherlock looked uncertain. “Most of this is outside of my control. With every string I cut, the variables change. There are no guarantees that even Mycroft will know enough to arrange a meeting.” 

“Oh, don’t you worry. I’ll give him incentive to try very hard.” 

*

Mycroft greeted him when John entered his flat. “Good morning. My, you look dreadfully worn out. That’s not just the red-eye speaking, is it?” He stood up and took John’s suitcase and coat, setting down the suitcase and hanging up the coat. 

John was dead tired after the overnight flight. He wasn’t shocked to see Mycroft sitting in the only comfortable chair, but he was surprised at the man’s solicitude. 

“Sit, the water’s hot. No sugar and a splash of milk as I recall.” He guided John to the chair and went off for the tea. He returned in a moment, a cup of tea in one hand and John’s phone in the other. He was thumbing the screen. “Oh, that is lovely.” 

John struggled out of the chair. “Oh, no, that's -- Give me that.” 

Mycroft twisted away, phone held at arm's length, flipping through the photos. “One, hm. Restrained of you, but how wise do you think it is to have a photo of my brother on your phone with that date stamp?” 

John stood back, lips pressed tight, his jaw working and temples throbbing. “You have no right.” 

“I have every right to protect my brother.” He held up the phone so John could see the photo. Sherlock, in lambent morning light, asleep and so lovely. “Look. Remember it. And remember that you will see him again.” With a press of his thumb, Mycroft deleted the photo, and then handed the phone back to John. 

“You fucking bastard.”

“Don’t disrespect my mother.” Mycroft opened more distance between them and leaned against the sideboard. “That photo was dangerous, but I’m glad to see proof that your visit benefited my brother. He rested? He ate something?” 

“Yeah,” John said, sullen. “For all the good it will do him for the next year.” 

“Eight months, John. Eight months.” 

“You won’t tell me where he’s going, will you.” It was hard not to feel defeated as Mycroft stood with all the power, and John sunk into his chair exhausted, frustrated, grieving, powerless. 

“I won’t. I can’t, not without hurting his chances. You, however, have a task in front of you.” 

“Yeah, mope around and wonder if you’ll even tell me if he’s dead or not.” 

“Well, yes, that,” Mycroft conceded, “but it’s time you dusted off your resume. You have a career to build.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“Broaden your specialisation and find a full time position.”

“Why would I do that?” 

“How else to explain all the medical conferences you’ll be attending?” Mycroft looked down at his fingernails. “Not all of them will be particularly, ah, special. But one or two might prove ... restorative.” He pierced John with a pale gaze. “You will protect his cover while you stay in London. But maybe -- just maybe -- there will be more tangible opportunities for you to remind him what he’s fighting for.” 

*

The Trauma and Emergency Medicine Conference was John’s legitimate choice of conference for a change, but he hoped anyway. The flight arrived in Vancouver a half hour early. John’s leg had started bouncing as soon as they touched down, anxious to fetch his bag and rush into the airport. Sherlock might come. He might. He had met him at the gate, once, having stolen a security badge. One time he had turned around on a revolving stool at the bar where John had stopped to swap out the currency in his wallet, and he startled John half to death. But as John walked through the terminal, looking all around, looking for a tall man and looking carefully because hair colour was no sure identifier, he saw no one who looked like Sherlock, and no one who was looking at him. Maybe this was the time Sherlock would not make the rendezvous because he was imprisoned, injured, dead in a shallow grave. Maybe they missed each other because of bad timing. Sometimes a conference was just a conference. 

In front of baggage claim, the usual line of limousine drivers stood bored and waiting, holding signs. The man at the end wearing a cap held up sign that read WATSON + HOLMES. In hindsight, that was the first clue.

“Repeating yourself, really?” John said as he stepped close, but he couldn’t stop smiling and his chest barely contained his relief. Sherlock grinned back at him. He wore a slim-cut black suit, a tight cloud-grey shirt open at the throat, and a flaring black wool trench coat that had the same silhouette as the coat he used to wear. “And what’s all this about?” He flicked the handwritten sign. “That’s not in the spirit of undercover work.” 

“Oh, how disappointing. I thought your powers of observation had grown, John. Look. Really look.” Sherlock took off the cap and tossed it over his shoulder to the stout man wearing a navy uniform that matched the cap. Sherlock’s hair was black and long enough to curl. 

John blinked, glanced about, and side-eyed Sherlock. Each visit with Sherlock kept John from breaking apart, but the long, slow time between them still hurt, still crushed him. The hope that Sherlock raised now was painful, liberating, miraculous, but there he was: coat, suit, hair, name. Breathing. Smiling at him. It wasn’t so tough a trail of evidence to follow at all. 

“You,” said John, reaching out as if to bridge the long months to that day when Sherlock stood on the roof. “You’re alive.”

*


End file.
